Melody
by kayono
Summary: She speaks to him in whispers, the gentle ghost of sweet breath long soured. It is a suggestion, a thought, a caveat; a voice beseeching wait, now, there: Jack O'Neill, Antarctica, and bodiless voices through the years. Or, the quiet foundation of the Expedition.


**Note:** *laughing alone with old!fic* At some point I got really taken a certain concept and wrote this as an intro to a couple other stories that expanded on said concept. I'll probably post those up later as I go through my old files/laptop, but for now, here's... this. On a semi-related note, it turns out I actually do have more of In-Sourcing, which will be posted at... some point soon. Ish.

From Jack O'Neill's POV, in case it isn't clear.

* * *

 _[She speaks to him in whispers]_

She speaks to him in whispers, the gentle ghost of sweet breath long soured. It is a suggestion, a thought, a caveat; a voice beseeching _wait, now, there:_

Long before, Carter had been a reassuring presence at his side, warmth to counter the cold and determination that bolstered his flagging strength. Strange and unsettling and so very foreign, the caves of ice had been nothing familiar, and she had been a single point of home in a world that seemed more alien than all the others of missions past. The steadfastness of _team_ , the gentle care that echoed of Sara, the truth which lingered and suffused all other actions that here, now, she could be depended upon, would follow orders even while doing everything to ignore them ( _leave, leave now, don't try to save me I'm already gone_ against _no, not yet, just one more hour, one more try_ ).

Waking was cold. Slumber was pain. And in between them he existed in a haze of skewed perceptions and logic fuzzier than a peach, managing to force himself to focus only to slip away along ice-sheared streams of sparkling light into banks of snowy fluff. Through it all hummed a melody of _safe-home-love-protect_ echoing of sun, of lazy childhood days in the throes of summer, of rightness. Of, clearly, encroaching insanity care of hypothermia, blood loss, and shock.

It was only in the embrace of a too-hard mattress and cloying smells of antiseptic and the unyielding grasp of the most formidable doctor he's ever known that he was told:

Antarctica is less like Earth than planets on the other side of the galaxy are like Earth.

Well. At least stepping through a wormhole into what could be the Pacific Northwest two times a week is less shocking.

 _Safe-home-love-protect_ follows him more faithfully than a dog, through the 'gate and back and to his home, his cabin, to Washington and Peterson and Nellis. It sings through every waved arm, every mile walked, every conversation of friendly banter and angry snark; it fills the gaps left by stray thoughts and angry plots; it embraces every half-remembered dream and hoards them like riches.

Frasier hadn't noticed anything strange after Antarctica, not even accounting for the injuries. She had assigned him bedrest and nothing but for _weeks_ (and all those boxing opportunities with Teal'c, gone by the wayside), and assigned the base shrink to sit and talk with him during those weeks.

The shrink hadn't noticed anything, either.

A warm pressure on the back of his mind, easy and familiar and comforting; the remnants of Carter in Antarctica, everything needed to get through the ordeal. The shrink didn't find out about it until week three, at which point he decided it was part of the coping process. Once he'd been released from the infirmary and back on active duty, the shrink said, it should just go away. Fade into the day-to-day until it is no longer noticeable. Disappear.

But it didn't. _Safe-home-love-protect_ came to be a constant underscore to every day, every trial, every meal and sleep and mission. It was fainter offworld, away from Earth. The shrink proclaimed he hadn't dealt with his traumas, his issues; Hathor didn't help, only compounded what was there, and while consciously he was ready to explore and adventure and meet every challenge head on, subconsciously he was still trying to find where is _safe_ , where is _home_.

Apparently, says the shrink, _home_ and _safe_ is Earth. As a whole. The entire planet, the people on it, everything that makes Earth, Earth. Obviously, the shrink was wrong. You don't survive BlackOps with warm, fuzzy feelings about everyone on this lonely marble rolling through space. And if the shrink was so wrong, even having access to his file, then seeing the shrink before and after missions was no longer necessary. So he stopped going, to Doc Frasier's annoyance and General Hammond's bemusement.

And then they found the Ancient Repository of Knowledge.

Aside from a brief visit with the shrink to deal with missing memories of a good week of his life, the incident itself is a non-issue. He provided them with another few 'gate addresses-those could have been obtained later at a market planet or friendly rebel. He managed to program the computers to allow them to dial an 8-chevron address-Carter could have managed it, once they realized 8-symbol addresses existed. He built a device that could provide the necessary power for an 8-symbol address-

Okay, that one was noteworthy. Ultimately useless, since not even Carter could figure out a way to reverse engineer it, but important in that _it has been done_ and _it could be done again_. A goal to reach for, something else to focus on in addition to weapons and trade and defeating the Goa'uld.

And alongside the would-be fallout, _safe-home-love-protect_ singing on and on, louder and clearer than before; a well of emotion that surges through veins and is released with every breath, where he is the conduit through which the melody is expelled into the world, to touch everyone and everything. The shrink would have a field day if he knew.

And through the following years, it grew louder still, faint violins joined by cellos and flutes, clarinets and drums, piano and trumpets and saxophones and trombones. A symphony orchestra playing to the tune of a heartbeat not his own but nearly in sync: _safe-home-love-protect_ , _safe-home-love-protect_.

Sacrifices made; loved ones lost; new friends gained and old friends returned; enemies defeated while others rose; Earth on the eve of battle even while her children fight amongst themselves.

 _Safe-home-love-protect_.

The second Ancient Repository was supposed to hold the key to the Lost City, to defeating Anubis and finally breaking the stranglehold of the Goa'uld across the Milky Way. _Avalon_. Instead came another long set of missing memories, this time worth weeks of amnesia and _months_ of stasis. Stasis _in Antarctica_ , that absolute gem of a vacation spot. Defeating Anubis' fleet and finding not the Lost City but at least an Ancient Outpost made it ultimately worth the lost time, inadvertent promotion to Brigadier General included, but.

But.

 _-am Glacia I am safety I will protect you_ -

It's not just a song of emotions anymore.

He's not willing to visit the shrink again, especially not now as a General, not while the Commanding Officer of SGC and therefore the bulwark between _his people_ and _everyone else_. Mostly politicians, but certain civilians have the dubious honour of making the _not my favourite people_ list. He can't be compromised, can't allow himself to be distracted. Not if he wants to keep enemies away.

 _-will protect you and yours I will not let them hurt-_

It's just as quiet as before, if more complex and nuanced; waking up on Thor's ship brought the realization of a new depth to the song, but returning to Earth for the first time since introduced _words_. Pleading, cajoling, celebrating, scolding; not true words formed around phonemes and strung together to give meaning, but ideas in and of themselves, communicated not through audible sound but through...

The mind? He doesn't know if it could be, not without asking, and he can't ask. _Won't ask._ This isn't something he can ever admit to, not if he wants to protect SGC, protect HWS, from the circling vultures.

It's not distracting if he doesn't let himself be distracted, so he focuses on the SGC and SG-1 and the surviving pilots of the Battle over Antarctica and the stuttering beginnings of an Expedition (and every day he wakes, he wonders _what_ possessed him to let McKay switch exile in Siberia to exile in Antarctica).

And then.

 _-there now come will show you will guide you only ask-_

Sheppard doesn't have anything that makes him particularly suited for the Stargate Program; rotor pilots aren't exactly on demand for 'gate teams. Colonel Hewlett's decision to send him to Antarctica as a glorified taxi driver for the rest of the Major's career was an easy one: can't give the man a dishonourable discharge for attempting to save the lives of fellow servicemen, regardless of orders (it sends the wrong message); can't let him go unpunished _because_ of his orders. And SpecOps need to be able to follow orders, or they're too much of a liability to themselves, their team, their mission.

Antarctica it was, an attempt to make Sheppard retire voluntarily; an attempt ultimately doomed to abject failure.

Antarctica is his least favourite continent, after all that has happened to him here (is happening every second because of here); it is cold and white and desolate, with the only company being penguins and leopard seals and, more deadly, fanatic scientists with questionable ethical standards.

Sheppard _likes it_. He joined the Air Force to fly, whether fixed wing or rotor, and at the end of the world where no wars are fought between humans and everyone's existence is for the sake of _science_ , that's all the man has to do. Few people, few weapons, endless sky and the job description of ferrying people around; Antarctica is the opposite of Afghanistan. Of The Mountain.

Sheppard would hate it, if he was recruited to the SGC.

 _-call him bring him answers will be given-_

He allows Sheppard his freedoms, ignores the man and all rumors about him, little as there is. He reads through the Major's service record, the black marks, the redactions that become legible when he's the one who asks for details. SpecOps would be useful on a 'gate team, especially one who has survived imprisonment and likely interrogation at the hands of the Taliban for two plus months, but the propensity for disobeying orders makes him less desirable. Better to leave him on the fringes, approve him as the designated ferryman for Dr. Weir's Expedition and the Antarctic Outpost researchers. It raises eyebrows at McMurdo that it requires _clearance_ to taxi people around the ice; but Sheppard was sent there with clearance. It's a built-in excuse to limit the Program's exposure to outsiders.

Almost none of the scientists talk to Sheppard, according to the reports. Kusanagi is the exception, and even she keeps a respectful distance. But when she flies in or out, she sits in the cockpit with Sheppard instead of in the back, and keeps up a steady flow of words that manages to pass as a conversation with the laconic pilot.

He doesn't actually meet Sheppard in person until Daniel calls him to the bottom of the world, a sudden breakthrough regarding the Lost City and therefore a potential super weapon against the Goa'uld in the offing. The Major is all the things painted by his service record, and then more. He can speak without saying anything, applying natural charm to redirect the conversation around and away from anything regarding himself, focusing the attention on others; if he doesn't need to speak to set someone at ease, he won't unless pressed; if pressed, especially to talk about himself, it is always about things that can be found in his record. No mentions of friends or family or previous postings; only the skills he has learnt and fond memories of some of the better incidents from his time in service.

It's easy to see why Kusanagi chooses to ride up front instead of in the back; from the cockpit, Antarctica is glimmering white and endless blue, looking more fairytale than reality. It's almost enough to make him appreciate the continent. Sheppard is a calm presence, steady in a way so many other pilots he's flown with are not; it's easy to talk at the man, knowing he's listening but not necessarily participating. But he's not made it to General without being able to draw information out of people. This time, it happens to be less interrogation and more conversation.

Sheppard flies the helo like he was born to it, long familiarity with the controls blending into easy confidence; the list of aircraft piloted a casual boast.

Skills proven, ten times over, when the drone is launched at them.

 _-bring him bring the Key I will tell you all Lantea must Rise or we will Fall-_

Sheppard has been on the edge of the Program for the last few months, will continue to be in Antarctica for a while yet, so it only makes sense that if he's going to be dealing with potential _rogue drones_ that he at least know what they _are_. And if there's an emergency and someone needs to get down to the Outpost and Chair in short order, at least there will be a pilot who knows enough to not ask questions and just _fly_.

Bringing Sheppard below, into the Outpost itself? Not technically necessary—the Major could wait and sign the paperwork in the above ground offices where he had previously whiled hours away while waiting for a delayed scientist or project to transit-but it's always easier to show than tell.

And if there's a chance that the two Antarctic Exiles might run into each other? Well, he has to get his kicks somewhere. He's in Antarctica _again_ , he's here to listen to his geek ramble for probably a couple hours, he's already been shot at, he is _not_ having a good day. He needs the amusement of Sheppard versus McKay.

 _-come here close touch I will show you-_

"Don't touch anything," he orders over his shoulder. He doesn't actually expect Sheppard to follow orders, but if the man is going to touch anything, it better be something more innocent than-

 _-close so close Lantea must Rise you will be offered-_

-Daniel still doesn't know the meaning of the word 'brief', but when in conjunction with Weir and McKay it's five times worse. And McKay is _here_ , which means he's not annoying (or being annoyed by) Sheppard. On the other hand, that particular clash of personalities is one he rather wants to witness, not just hear second-hand reports of, so he'll count it as one positive in amongst all the negatives.

 _-yes now you will suit for Lantea you will-_

A chill down his spine, the echo of _safe-home-love-protect_ overwhelmed for an instant by _hope-fear-beginning-ending_ , the melody changing tempo and beat: set to another's heart, no longer his own.

"Dr. Weir, General O'Neill! You need to come now, the Chair-the Major-"

 _-I am Glacia and I will guide you-_

Kusanagi. Beckett, by his own admission. Himself, even, from long before he'd met the man. All what Beckett calls ATA gene carriers, the people who can use the technology left by the Ancients. One in millions, and here they are with three of the strongest carriers having found their way into the Stargate Program.

Four, now. Four, with Sheppard having been a definite presence on the periphery of all three of them for the last six months.

 _-to Lantea and you will be our offering to her-_

The words are not truly words, sounds arranged to give meaning; they are ideas long formed but only recently sung out to those who can hear. Concepts from millennia ago, poorly understood by modern humans-

-but it is difficult to interpret the words as anything but _sacrificial offering_ , no matter that his mind wants to say _exchange of goods and services_. A transaction, Beckett and Kusanagi agree: in return for the safe passage and berth of the Expedition, one person to be the touchstone, the anchor point.

He does what he can to make it palatable for them: negotiates with Beckett to step in if Sheppard fails; makes Weir swear that she won't go behind his back to the up-and-coming Major General Landry for the go-ahead if he doesn't agree; gives Sheppard the choice of joining the Expedition or remaining in Antarctica, even if he does push for Sheppard to join. Weir won't be held off for long, nor will the brass; there is a potential weapon to end the Goa'uld forever, millennia of knowledge to be learnt, and they will not be ignored.

Better the willing sacrifice of one than the senseless deaths of all the Expedition.

He thinks he should feel more guilty for wanting Sheppard to say yes, but mostly he just wants the Expedition gone and discovering a new galaxy and meeting new people and maybe, hopefully, finding a way to bring home whatever treasures and weapons they find in the last great bastion of the Ancients ( _-Lantea-_ ). Atlantis.

Maybe then the daughter of the last great lady ( _-Glacia I am Glacia I will protect-love-be safe-be home-_ ) would stop talking to him.


End file.
